Aug 3

Aug 3 The Challenge of Reviewing Memoirs

[image description: A reading nook featuring one tall shelf, one short shelf, and a tall lamp hanging over a wicker chair. There’s a window behind the chair to allow for sunlight.]

I’ve loved memoirs for nearly two decades. I actually remember the first memoir I ever read! It was gymnast Dominique Moceanu’s memoir, American Champion, which I found at a yard sale when I was 12.

These days, I read a LOT of memoirs––in part because I’m writing one and find them inspiring. In reading memoirs, I’ve come to find they generally fall into one of four categories:

The author is an excellent writer and also led a fascinating life.
The author is an excellent writer and led an average life.
The author is a poor writer and led a fascinating life.
The author is a poor writer and led an average life.

Obviously, category 1 is the best outcome and many of the memoirs I’ve read have fallen into that category. And I actually haven’t read too many that fall into category 4 since those tend not to be published by traditional presses. It’s the categories in the middle that I struggle with.

I find it difficult to review memoirs that I didn’t enjoy honestly without it sounding like I’m personally attacking the author. Is there a nice way to tell someone their life seems boring? Or that it’s clear the only reason they got a book deal is that this totally gonzo one-in-a-billion thing happened to them and not because they’re a good writer? Perhaps it’s merely a failure of imagination on my part, but I can’t really think of how to do that.

This came up because I read a memoir a few weeks ago that was deeply personal and had an interesting story, but the writing was so bad that the book bored me. There was so much telling and so little showing. And all the telling (not showing) forced all the people in the memoir into a one-dimensional box where it was difficult to connect with any of them. The memoir was by a woman who was adopted and decided to embark on finding her birth family and connecting with her culture after learning she was pregnant herself.

The story was ripe to have me enraptured. It’s the kind of book I normally dive into and later look at the clock to find several hours have passed. I was so convinced I’d love it that I bought it new in hardcover. I wanted so badly to enjoy it, so I was disappointed when it fell flat. I was inclined to give it 2 or 3 stars on Goodreads, but I was paranoid people would think I was an asshole for not appreciating what this writer has been through. I ended up giving it 4 stars and now feel like I’ve lied to my followers on there. A lot of people ask me for book recommendations and while I don’t think the book is horrid, it’s still not one I want to actively recommend.

These days I’m trying to find positivity in things since the world is going to hell, so I’ll conclude here with telling you the best memoirs I’ve read so far this year: